Doctor Clarkson informed the Dowager that he would be staying at the Crawley home in Manchester to help Isobel get back on her feet.
Although the Dowager did not care for the rumors that could accompany the fact of a bachelor staying with her widowed cousin, Lady Violet reasoned that at least Richard was in fact a doctor, and Isobel still needed assistance. It was clear that Cousin Isobel still looked unwell – whether that was from the lingering illness or from grief, Violet felt that it was the latter. At the very least, Isobel had gotten some sleep, and the large, dark bags under her eyes had begun to disappear.
Violet smiled at the fact that the two undoubtedly loved each other. The Dowager knew that it would be against his very nature for Doctor Clarkson to take advantage of Isobel when she was in such a vulnerable state.
Yes, Violet thought long and hard about the arrangement, I think they both will be quite fine. Scandals would not be conducive to Isobel's recovery. Whether the Dowager would admit to it or not, her only concern was Isobel's wellbeing, and, if Doctor Clarkson's presence would help, she had no major objection for the time being.
Two days later, Doctor Todd finally released Isobel from the hospital. The Dowager had a car waiting on her at the front of the building. Violet sat watching Doctor Clarkson gently helping Isobel into the automobile. She noticed her cousin leaned on him heavily, as if she was afraid to let him go.
Isobel settled next to Violet, and Richard sat in the front seat.
"I'm glad to see that you are finally free to go," Violet smiled and looked over at Isobel.
"Yes," Isobel let out a deep breath, "it will be nice to get back into my own bed." But, if the truth be known, Isobel still felt a bit shaky. I'm going back to a house, and my son is not there. Matthew won't be there to welcome me home.
In all her years, Isobel always had Matthew. He was her one constant in life. With the exception of when he was away at college and during the war, Matthew always was there for his mother, always checking on her, always making her feel wanted.
He was her home.
And now he would not be there. Isobel could not shake that thought.
The car arrived at the front of the Manchester home. The driver helped the Dowager out, while Doctor Clarkson offered his arm to Isobel. She clutched it tightly, feeling herself begin to tremble.
Why are you so frightened old girl? Isobel berated herself. You have been in this house even after he was gone. It is not the first time you have entered an empty house. But is it my home?
As if sensing her trepidation, Doctor Clarkson whispered in Isobel's ear, "It's all right. I am here, and I am not leaving. Remember you wanted to show me this home, this life you had. And it was happy, my darling, despite the pain. You were happy here." He pulled her closer to him, moving his arm protectively around her sleight frame.
"Yes," Isobel smiled at him, glad that he was there to remind her of the joy she had once felt in this home. "I want you to see it, to stay with me here."
She unlocked the front door, and the two went inside together.
Isobel had forgotten the Dowager was behind her until Lady Violet let out a cough. "And am I going to be allowed inside to see this home of yours?" The Dowager questioned. "I am rather interested to see this place before you come to your senses and return to Downton," she quipped.
Isobel was taken aback at first then chuckled softly. "Of course, come inside," Isobel smiled. She chose to ignore Violet's last dig.
Lady Violet stepped inside the Manchester home. The first thing she noticed right off the bat was its size. It was significantly smaller that Crawley House, obviously no room for servants. She followed Isobel through to a sitting room. But, Violet gathered, the well decorated, cream colored room served several purposes. It seemed to be the central location of the house, where the family gathered to spend the evening and where they received guests.
How very strange, Violet mused. Do they not have a proper place to sit and have tea – a room just for that purpose? The room contained a book shelf, well stocked with medical journals and several copies of the handbook Gray's Anatomy. There were two rich burgundy sofas, one slightly smaller than the other, and a navy wingback chair that faced the fireplace. In the corner of the room sat a very small table and four chairs, made from light wood, birch perhaps or maybe oak, the Dowager could not quite decide. That must be where they take their tea, Violet mused.
"So, I gather, you have no servants or maids here?" Violet inquired, taking a seat on the smaller of the burgundy sofas.
"No," Isobel responded. "Nor do I have a cook. I did all the domestic work myself. To be honest, I feel as if I live in the lap of luxury at Crawley House," Isobel admitted freely and then yawned. "Excuse me," she apologized, "I am still not up to par." Isobel closed her eyes and massaged her temple.
"Oh, don't worry about that at all," the Dowager replied. "Upstairs with you. Get some rest, as much as need be. I will make myself at home for a moment."
"Can you manage without a maid?" Isobel jested, feeling as if she could still give her cousin a bit of a hard time.
Violet shot her a look; her eyebrows raised. "Of course, I can, though why anyone would want to is beyond me."
"Not everyone can afford a lady's maid," Isobel responded.
"And that is why some people are servants," the Dowager quipped.
Doctor Clarkson looked between the two women. He was happy to see them sparring again. Perhaps, he thought, it meant that Isobel was making progress. "Well, as much as I hate to interrupt," Richard spoke, "I believe that Mrs. Crawley needs to get some rest. If you will direct me to your room, I will help you up the stairs."
"I can manage myself," Isobel started to protest.
Richard placed a gentle hand on her arm. "Please…let me," his eyes pleaded. The last thing he wanted was for her to become dizzy and tumble down the steps. He knew she was still not herself.
She looked up to meet his eyes, touching his hand softly. "All right," she whispered and grabbed his arm.
He helped her up the stairs, noticing how tightly she clutched his arm. They passed by one closed door and a second on the landing. She opened that second door to a small spare bedroom. "You can stay here," she asserted. "It's the guest room. I realize it's tiny, but we never had much in the way of company." Then, she eyed the other door they had passed. "That was Matthew's room. I haven't had the courage to go in there yet," she admitted, biting her lower lip.
"I understand," he answered quietly. He contemplated her face, those beautiful eyes, those lips the color of a fine wine. He wanted to kiss those lips again.
He found himself unable to resist. He tilted her chin up slightly, and his lips brushed ever so softly against hers. He could hear her quick intake of breath and then her deep, contented sigh.
She leaned into him and pulled his head down closer to hers. Her eyelashes fluttered against his cheek for a brief moment. Then, she returned the kiss. It was more passionate that his rather chaste one. She felt him attempt to stifle a moan. She left him feeling dazed and desperate for more. "Thank you," she whispered in his ear and then shivered.
He placed his hands on her arms, running them brusquely up and down in an attempt to warm her. "For what?" His heart pounded.
"For reminding me that I am alive," she answered. She held onto his arm as they made their way to the third door on the landing. "This is our bedroom…I mean…Reginald's and mine." Her cheeks colored a bright red. "I can take care of everything from here," she spoke softly.
"Do you need me to take you to bed?" Richard just realized how that sounded. He hung his head low; his stomach did flips. He attempted to correct himself. "I mean…I'm sorry…what I meant to say is do you need help getting into bed? Oh goodness, that's not right either. I mean nothing improper. Do you need help, Isobel?" He was clearly flustered now, turning several shades of red.
Isobel giggled softly. "No, I can manage."
"Please don't laugh at me," Richard responded sheepishly. "It did not come out the way I intended."
"Oh, I know how you intended it, Richard," Isobel stifled another laugh. She kept her voice low, not wanting the Dowager to overhear her. "It's just good to see you squirm a bit. Funny, but in the most endearing way."
"You're not mad then?" Richard asked, meeting her eyes.
"No," Isobel answered. "I'm not upset. I am flattered though, even if it was not an indecent proposal." She winked at him, shutting the door behind her.
Richard tugged down his shirt, a nervous habit he had. He descended the stair, returning to the sitting room to talk with the Dowager. He found it empty.
Now where did she go off to? He wondered to himself. Richard felt it rude to be walking around the home without Isobel being there to show it to him. I feel very strange to be down here alone, while she's up there asleep. Surely, I can't just travel from room to room poking around. He felt quite awkward being left to his own devices in a home that was not his own.
He found Lady Violet in what appeared to be a downstairs office. An older desk and chair sat in one corner and another bookshelf lined the wall. The Dowager was bent over what appeared to be old letters and photos that had been stashed in a small box that had a lock on it, sitting open on the table.
The Dowager had found letters back and forth between Isobel and Reginald Crawley. She had not meant to pry, but they were sitting open and unfolded on the table, practically begging for her attention. Isobel must have been going through them before she had taken ill.
Whether Isobel would ever forgive her for invading her privacy, the Dowager did not worry about that question for the moment. She was too engrossed, learning about her cousin's past.
23 November 1880
My dearest Reginald,
Oh, how I miss you darling! I wish you were still here with me in Manchester and not back in Africa. Your short sojourn home was not nearly long enough. But I understand that you go where you are needed. Taking care of our soldiers, saving lives, healing is what you do. It is who you are. And I love you for it. However, that does not mean that I find our home…our bed (perhaps, that is a very risqué thing to write) …very lonely without you.
I have been training to become a nurse as you know, but I do not think I will end up joining you in South Africa. I know that will disappoint you. But…
I do have news to tell you. Don't worry, my darling. It is of the most joyous kind. We are expecting a baby. A baby! Can you believe it? I wish you were here so that I could inform you in person, to feel your arms around me and see the smile on your face. I am pregnant. And I am so happy. My husband, we are to be parents! I can scarcely believe it.
Now, darling, I know that you will worry about me. I will take it easy. I promise I will not keep long hours at the hospital (well, as long anyways). Doctor Todd will not let me, nor would mother, but you know her.
Can you believe we are to be parents? I know, I am repetitive. But it does not seem real.
I cannot wait for you to return home. Write me when you can. Tell me that you are okay and what is going on. We hear so very little news. I know there are things you cannot tell me. But, just some word to know how it fairs.
I miss you.
With all my love,
Your Isobel (plus a half)
Violet looked at the date of the letter. 1880. She is not talking about Matthew, Violet gathered. Matthew was born in 1885. Isobel had other children? What could have possibly happened? Violet flipped through to the next dated letter.
20 December 1880
Drakensburg Mountains, South Africa
My darling wife,
Words cannot express my joy at receiving the news that you disclosed in your last letter. We are to be parents. I am to be a father! I could shout it from the rooftops. I certainly need the lift in spirit that only you can bring, my Isobel. I hope I can be half as good a father as mine was to me and yours to you. I know that you will be the best of mothers. We have been lucky, Isobel…blessed really…you and I.
My darling girl, I miss you too. If only you knew how much. You ask for news from the front. I can only give you what I see at our encampment, at the field hospital. Excuse the cliché, my darling, but war is hell. You cannot know the suffering, the grief until you see it firsthand. The anguish on a young lad's face when you must tell him that he will lose that leg. Or the bullet that has claimed another fellow.
Time after time, we attempt to gain territory, but the Boers push us back. We have suffered many a defeat, none yet as embarrassing as Laing's Nek. There are so many wounded, my dear. Too many. And I cannot save them all. I know, if you were here, you would have some words of wisdom, provide some semblance of comfort. But, what can I do, my darling?
War summons death, like a bell ringing for children to come to class. It demands death's attention.
I long to return to you, my Isobel. To be welcomed back in your arms. And yes…our bed. To see my child be born. To deliver it myself if I return in time.
Until next we meet, my dearest.
Yours eternally,
Reggie
Violet felt as if she had stumbled upon a romantic novel, the letters between the young couple torn from each other by war. They loved each other, Violet smiled and caught herself glancing over at a framed photo of a young couple that sat on the desk. The Dowager read the next letter in the sequence.
18 January 1881
Reggie,
There is no baby. I miscarried. I feel so useless, so incredibly useless. I know how upset you will be at reading this letter. I tried, my darling. I tried so desperately. But, our child…our baby…will not see this world. I am sorry. So terribly sorry to write this news.
I love you, my husband.
Stay safe and promise me you will come home.
All my love,
Your Isobel
A hand went to Violet's mouth, and she moved to sit in the chair. She shook her head as her hand travelled to her temple, rubbing there for a moment. Miscarriage. Isobel has lost a child before. She never told me. I cannot possibly know how she feels.
A low cough disrupted the Dowager's thoughts. "Isobel is resting now, your Ladyship," Doctor Clarkson informed her. He glanced around the room, noticing the letters in Lady Violet's hands.
The Dowager placed them back down on the desk. "Isobel left them out," she explained, "and, I suppose, curiosity got the best of me." She eyeballed the doctor, wondering if he knew anything. Lady Violet decided that the direct approach would be the best. "Did you know that Isobel had a miscarriage? That she has lost a child before Matthew?"
"I just discovered the news. Doctor Todd informed me when Lady Grantham, Lady Mary, and myself first tried to bring her back to Downton. I believe Isobel told Lady Grantham and Lady Mary," he spoke softly, letting out a breath. "And," Doctor Clarkson added, "there were miscarriages. Plural. Isobel told me so herself."
"You mean more than one?" Violet inquired, shocked. She tried to wrap her head around it all.
"Three."
"The poor dear. And she suffered alone," Violet said, the corners of her lips falling low.
"What do you mean?" Doctor Clarkson asked.
"These letters were written during the war. Reginald was in South Africa. She informed him of the pregnancy in one letter. And, by her next, she had lost the baby. There was no time for Reginald to come home between the two. She was alone. Did you serve in Africa, Doctor?" The Dowager informed Richard about what she read, the pain those letters seemed to convey.
"Yes," he answered, "for a brief time." Then, he looked down at the picture of the couple, absently rubbing a finger across Isobel's young face. "She seems to always be alone. To face great loss by herself," Doctor Clarkson murmured, not particularly looking for an answer.
"But," Violet tapped her cane to the ground, "she is not alone this time. You are here with her. I am too and the rest of my family. You will see her through the shadows of grief. Cast the light of the sun around her. Do not let her walk in the dark for too long," Violet said simply.
"And," he wrung his hands together, "how am I supposed to do that?"
"You love her through it," Violet remarked sagely. "Would you like to read these letters?"
"No," Doctor Clarkson said solemnly. "I do not want to invade her marriage. If she wants to tell me anymore, she will."
"Very well. And, Doctor Clarkson, do not, by any means, tell her that I read those letters. I will leave them as I found them. Under no circumstances is she to know," Violet warned; her eyes glaring at him as if daring him to do so.
He chuckled. "Your secret is safe with me."
"Good," the Dowager responded. "Now, shall we return to her sitting room? Can you make us a pot of tea? I need something to calm my nerves," she spoke a bit shakily.
"Yes, I'll go make it now," Doctor Clarkson responded.
He made his way into the Crawley kitchen. It was small enough for a stove, an icebox, sink, and small island counter – minimum space, but functional. Isobel said that they never had much in the way of company. And, if she managed the house on her own, she had just enough space to make a meal for the three of them. He wondered about the young Isobel Crawley bustling around this kitchen – the devoted mother, a passionate wife, a skilled nurse – preparing a meal for her family. He smiled.
The kettle boiled, and Doctor Clarkson removed it from the stove. He set a tray for the Dowager. At least Isobel has a proper tea tray. He searched for one and luckily enough found it. The Dowager won't give her trouble for that at least. He snickered to himself.
He brought the tray into the sitting room. The two sipped their cups politely, but neither one made much in the way of conversation.
It was getting darker outside. The Dowager finished her tea and prepared herself to leave. "I believe I should return to the hotel now," she declared. "You keep an eye on our patient, doctor. Take care of her," Violet commanded, gesturing up the stairs. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, your ladyship," he said as he saw her out the door.
Doctor Clarkson stood in the house. He felt very alone at the moment. Well, I'm not alone. She's sleeping upstairs. Perhaps unsure is the better word. Yes, I am unsure of how I am supposed to act towards her. Do I press her? Do I push her? Or do I let her come to me? I love her – of that much I am sure. And she loves me, but what does she want? What does she need? I can help her as far as her health needs – make sure she is eating, regaining her strength, not wearing herself down. But can I heal her heart?
Richard walked up the stairs to the guest bedroom with that thought in his mind. Before he entered the room, he stared at Isobel's shut door. He thought back to their kiss outside that door. My God, but she is beautiful. So very beautiful through it all…or maybe even because of it all. I want to know her. All of her. The good and the bad. Past and present. Whatever this means. Wherever we are headed.
He entered the guest room, changed into his pajamas, and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Richard had always been like that. He never really had problems falling asleep. It just came to him – one of the lucky ones, he guessed.
He had been asleep for several hours when a cry in the middle of the night disturbed him. A broken wail came from the master bedroom – a heart-wrenching sob that seemed to be uncontrollable.
Isobel!
Richard shot out of bed. He threw on a robe, tied it, and made his way down the hall. He opened her bedroom door, rushing in without hesitation.
I hope you all liked this next installment. Leave me a review and let me know if you have the time. There's more on the way, so I hope you will stick around.